the corridor. You other two go right.
“Welcome to the Scrapyard.”
As they neared the end of the corridor, Rutger felt increasingly disturbed. The shouts and cheers became steadily more savage and animalistic the closer they moved toward their source. The corridor walls were lined with arms, legs, pistons, boilers, chassis plates, coal hoppers, furnace grates, and almost every other steamjack component Rutger could put a name to. He saw the ugly gnaw marks of scrap saws, the deep gashes inflicted by battle blades, the gouges left behind by drill rigs, the hideous crumpling caused by a cargo claw. Some pieces were scorched and melted, evidence of boiler explosions.
“Vulger needs to get some scrappers in here,” Marko said as they marched past the debris. “Any of the good salvage makes its way back into circulation pretty quick, but he’s bad about having the junk hauled away.”
Taryn grabbed the thief by the scruff of his neck. “What’s that about salvage?”
“Just . . . just the standard agreement,” Marko said. “Any ’jack that can’t walk away after a fight becomes the property of the house.”
“And I’ll just bet they don’t call the fights until they’re dead sure one of the ’jacks won’t be walking away!” Taryn shook the Midlunder like a rag doll.
“Usually, usually,” Marko said. “But we won’t have that problem. Vulger’s not going to pit Rex against anything it can’t beat. He’ll want to build up interest first. Give Rutger and Rex a chance to gain a reputation.”
Taryn shoved Marko against the wall. She turned toward Rutger. “If you’d rather call the whole thing off . . .”
Rutger barely heard her. The end of the corridor was close now, the passage branching off to left and right. The brick half wall afforded a view out across the arena. At one time it must have been the main workshop. Now it was given over to a ring of tiered platforms that surrounded a sunken pit some hundreds of yards across. The torsos of two steamjacks rose above the lip of the pit, lunging and pitching from one side to the other. The ’jacks pounded at each other with their massive metal fists, battering one another into dented hulks.
A set of iron cages swung above the pit, suspended from the roof by steel cables. There was a man locked inside each cage, face pressed close to the bars, a tin funnel pressed to his lips as he tried to make his shouts heard above the roaring engines and driving fists of the steamjacks below. Rutger immediately guessed who the caged men were.
Taryn did too. This time her hand was around Marko’s throat rather than his scruff. “They’re not locking Rutger in a cage!”
“Easy,” Rutger said. “A ’jack’s operator has to be close to the action. Up in a cage is better than down in the pit.”
Taryn still looked dubious. “This rat didn’t say anything about handing over weapons or salvage or putting you in a cage! What else did he forget to mention?”
“If you decided to let him breathe, he might tell us.”
Taryn frowned. She quite liked Marko’s purple complexion. Reluctantly, she let the thief gulp air back into his lungs.
“There . . . there may be . . . one . . . other thing,” Marko said. He pointed up at the cages. Taryn was first to spot what the thief was trying to show them.
She shuddered. “Look at their hands.”
A chill crawled down Rutger’s back. He could see one of the men’s hands where he held onto the bars. It only had three fingers. That might have been simply coincidence, but the man in the opposite cage was pressing the tin funnel to his lips with a grotesque nub of flesh that only had a thumb left.
“Vulger wants to make sure every fight is on the up and up,” Marko said. “A lot of people bet on the fights and he doesn’t want anybody to think they’re rigged. So . . . so the loser, the guy whose ’jack gets beaten, well, he kind of has one of his fingers cut off.”
“We’re
“Welcome to the Scrapyard.”
As they neared the end of the corridor, Rutger felt increasingly disturbed. The shouts and cheers became steadily more savage and animalistic the closer they moved toward their source. The corridor walls were lined with arms, legs, pistons, boilers, chassis plates, coal hoppers, furnace grates, and almost every other steamjack component Rutger could put a name to. He saw the ugly gnaw marks of scrap saws, the deep gashes inflicted by battle blades, the gouges left behind by drill rigs, the hideous crumpling caused by a cargo claw. Some pieces were scorched and melted, evidence of boiler explosions.
“Vulger needs to get some scrappers in here,” Marko said as they marched past the debris. “Any of the good salvage makes its way back into circulation pretty quick, but he’s bad about having the junk hauled away.”
Taryn grabbed the thief by the scruff of his neck. “What’s that about salvage?”
“Just . . . just the standard agreement,” Marko said. “Any ’jack that can’t walk away after a fight becomes the property of the house.”
“And I’ll just bet they don’t call the fights until they’re dead sure one of the ’jacks won’t be walking away!” Taryn shook the Midlunder like a rag doll.
“Usually, usually,” Marko said. “But we won’t have that problem. Vulger’s not going to pit Rex against anything it can’t beat. He’ll want to build up interest first. Give Rutger and Rex a chance to gain a reputation.”
Taryn shoved Marko against the wall. She turned toward Rutger. “If you’d rather call the whole thing off . . .”
Rutger barely heard her. The end of the corridor was close now, the passage branching off to left and right. The brick half wall afforded a view out across the arena. At one time it must have been the main workshop. Now it was given over to a ring of tiered platforms that surrounded a sunken pit some hundreds of yards across. The torsos of two steamjacks rose above the lip of the pit, lunging and pitching from one side to the other. The ’jacks pounded at each other with their massive metal fists, battering one another into dented hulks.
A set of iron cages swung above the pit, suspended from the roof by steel cables. There was a man locked inside each cage, face pressed close to the bars, a tin funnel pressed to his lips as he tried to make his shouts heard above the roaring engines and driving fists of the steamjacks below. Rutger immediately guessed who the caged men were.
Taryn did too. This time her hand was around Marko’s throat rather than his scruff. “They’re not locking Rutger in a cage!”
“Easy,” Rutger said. “A ’jack’s operator has to be close to the action. Up in a cage is better than down in the pit.”
Taryn still looked dubious. “This rat didn’t say anything about handing over weapons or salvage or putting you in a cage! What else did he forget to mention?”
“If you decided to let him breathe, he might tell us.”
Taryn frowned. She quite liked Marko’s purple complexion. Reluctantly, she let the thief gulp air back into his lungs.
“There . . . there may be . . . one . . . other thing,” Marko said. He pointed up at the cages. Taryn was first to spot what the thief was trying to show them.
She shuddered. “Look at their hands.”
A chill crawled down Rutger’s back. He could see one of the men’s hands where he held onto the bars. It only had three fingers. That might have been simply coincidence, but the man in the opposite cage was pressing the tin funnel to his lips with a grotesque nub of flesh that only had a thumb left.
“Vulger wants to make sure every fight is on the up and up,” Marko said. “A lot of people bet on the fights and he doesn’t want anybody to think they’re rigged. So . . . so the loser, the guy whose ’jack gets beaten, well, he kind of has one of his fingers cut off.”
“We’re
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